Sherlock Holmes and the Lubricant Acquisition
by Avexl
Summary: In which Sherlock takes a trip to the shop to get some lubricant. Crack. Johnlock.


**AN: Hey, I changed my pen name. Sorry if this confuses anyone. So a while ago on Tumblr a post was going round ****in which someone pointed out some of the flaws/clichés of Sherlock fanfiction writers and fanfic writers in general. **

**[Find if here: mallamun(add a dot)tumblr(another dot, if you please)com/post/13541809283/the-physics-of-fan-fic-sex]**

**One of the things that it pointed out was the ridiculousness of Sherlock and John always having lube on hand whenever they need it, and it said: "Insert drawing of Sherlock buying KY Jelly at Tesco here". So here I present to you: Sherlock Holmes acquiring lubricant. Utter crack, but writing it made me laugh.**

* * *

"Louise, there's a shoplifter on aisle six."

I roll my eyes in disgust; it's disgraceful. If I can take a shitty job out of necessity then these bloody morons can get one too instead of just nicking anything that takes their fancy. "We seriously need to have _actual store detectives_ here rather than us lot trying to scare them off. It never works," I complain.

"Tall, dark hair, big coat—he's putting stuff into his pockets," my boss states, completely ignoring what I've just said. "He's in the sex supplies." She makes it sound as if sex is some kind of expedition which needs to be packed for. If I wasn't so pissed off I'd laugh. "I think he's trying to steal condoms," she smirks. There's no order there, but I'm so used to this crap now I just get up and walk from the CCTV screen to aisle six.

"I am _really_ not getting paid enough for this job," I mumble as by boss, Allison, laughs behind me.

When I get there the man isn't trying to nick condoms at all; he's looking through the lubricant. He moves startlingly fast, bouncing from one foot to the other, holding the bottles to the light, and he looks like reading the labels, but he can't be because he looks at the bottles for scarcely a second. He then pockets them, before changing his mind and repeating the bizarre routine. If you're the kind of freak who steals lube, the least you could do would be, I don't know, decisive about it. Who wants to get caught shoplifting a bottle of lube? Who wants that on a police statement? "What are you in for?" "Stealing lube." I huff out an irritated sigh before walking up behind the man.

"Hello," the man turns around and looks straight at me; "I'm looking for some lubricant to have sex with my boyfriend," he straight out declares. I have no idea what the fuck I am supposed to say to that. "Anal sex," he clarifies, as if that makes a difference.

I stare open-mouthed at the man's brashness; he clearly doesn't give a shit that I'm supposed to be stopping him shoplifting and just sees me as someone to help him select his loot. "Open your arms," he commands, and for some stupid reason I'm doing what he says—I put it down to surprise. Before I can open my mouth to protest he picks up about a dozen bottles and unceremoniously dumps them into my hands. I stumble a little with the weight.

"Which one of these would you recommend?" he asks in a cheery voice which doesn't fit the occasion. He's asking me. He's asking me what lube to steal. For God's sake. "Like I said before, it's for anal sex. You've had anal sex on quite a number of occasions," he mentions, eyeing me up and down with a wry smile. How…? I don't even. No. Why does he? This…. I can't quite speak. I'm becoming rather conscious of how loud this conversation is; well, it's not really much of a conversation. "You enjoy it a fair bit—you've had anal intercourse with both of the men you've had sexual relationships with—so you've had a fair bit of experience. Which one of these would you recommend?" His long arms gesture to the pile of bottles clumsily clutched to my chest.

I. No. This is. I am at work. He knows. How does he know? No. This is wrong. Is this…is this a joke? I don't…. No. Why me? Why is this happening to me? Why do I get the humiliating crazy to deal with?

"I assure you I am not making a joke, I am simply asking for your opinion on which brand of anal lubricant you find superior." And the fucker's a mind reader, too. I'm aware of how I'm just gawking now—open mouthed and overwhelmed. I want to crawl under a rock and die. Just die. Let me die. Why did I come into work this morning?

"I suppose also it depends on whether or not we'll be using condoms," he muses aloud. "We haven't so far in our other sexual activity—I mean, why would we—I've never had sex with anyone else, and John is a doctor and rather fastidious when it comes to health, including sexual health. We haven't had need of it. Hmm, that affects which lubricant I need to buy; I'll have to get water-based in that case. As someone who's had both protected and unprotected anal sex, which would you say was better? Is it difficult to wash sperm out of the rectum?"

WHO THE FUCK IS THIS MAN WHO KNOWS ALL OF THIS? Is he some kind of Derren Brown who can just read this shit off of me? And if so, why is he standing here getting, of all things, _lube_ and asking me about…awkward things? He's really rather attractive in a weird way—even if he looks at least fifteen years older than me—but who the fuck would want to have sex with this man? He's a fucking maniac. God, why does he have to be actually fit? Why must the lunatic intent on humiliating me be gorgeous? Just turn the knife in a little deeper, why don't you?

"Thank you, but like I said before: I have a boyfriend." Just…what? Stop. Why is he speaking to me? Just, why? "Yes, condoms it is I think; it seems like it's just more practical, and John won't have to worry about urinary tract infections associated with unprotected anal sex."

He tosses a few different boxes of condoms on top of the pile I'm clutching. This man is mental. Just go away. Go away. Go away and never return and go and _buy_ lube somewhere else. I don't want to talk to you; I _can't_ talk to you, so just leave me be. Please. Why is this the only one of my thoughts that you can't read? Oh God. Just open your mouth and tell him to fuck off. Just tell him. Anything. Hit him. Punch him; he's being a wanker. Tell him to return back to the depths of hell from whence he came; he's fucking Satan. Do anything other than stand here blushing. Is it physically possible for all eight pints of blood to be contained in your cheeks at once? Because it really fucking feels like it.

"No, it's not." Because this fucker's back to reading my every thought again. "Also, flavoured lubricants, are they worth the money? I have never tried rimming; is it a pleasurable activity, as someone who has experience of it?" If the last of my dignity had been completely destroyed and incinerated before, he is now pissing out the ashes.

He stares intently at the back of a packet of condoms as a small man strides towards us who looks in equal parts alarmed and mortified. If I had a mirror now, I'm pretty sure my expression would mirror his exactly.

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing?" His voice is hushed. At least the small guy seems to have a grasp that whatever the fuck is going on isn't something that needs to involve shouting. And points as well for acknowledging that this is not proper behaviour.

"You were the one who said you weren't going to buy everything, John. I thought what I'm doing is obvious—I'm buying the lube and condoms we need." He's nearly shouting. So this is his boyfriend. The poor, unlucky fool, however attractive the nutjob is.

"What the hell have you done to her?! She looks like she's gone into shock." He turns to me, a weighty look on his face, with a fair bit of exasperation in there too that suggests he's used to him being this…I don't even think there's a word for him. "I am _so_ sorry. So sorry. I don't know what he's done to you but I'll do whatever—I'll give you money for your trouble. I know it can't make up for whatever he's done, but I'm just so sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he blabbers.

"She was merely assisting me in selecting lubricant and condoms. She hasn't been very helpful—I shall have to report your conduct to whoever is your manager."

"No, Sherlock. No. It's her job to deal with customers, not the likes of _you_. Again, I am so sorry, miss. He's just like that. Really sorry." I just continue to stare at the two of them, unable to move, despite his perfuse apologies.

"Well, I wouldn't have had to come here in the first place if we just used the lube I created. It's _your_ fault."

"IT CAUGHT FIRE!"

"THAT WAS ONCE AND IN A VERY EARLY BATCH. I'VE IMPROVED IT SINCE THEN!"

"I AM NOT PUTTING ANYTHING THAT _CAN CATCH FIRE_ ANYWHERE NEAR THAT PART OF MY BODY! OR ANY PART FOR THAT MATTER!"

So the crazy guy made spontaneously combusting lube. Why am I not surprised by that? They're both yelling now, and I can feel all the eyes of the store on us, as if they weren't already. This is by far, the most ridiculous domestic I have ever witnessed in my life.

"That's it. We're leaving. I am _honestly, truly_ sorry. I don't even…." He lets the sentence trail off as he grabs Mr Crazy-I-live-to-make-people-feel-as-ashamed-as-humanly-possible and drags him out of the store.

As I watch I notice how everyone is staring at me now, still clutching the massive pile of lube and condoms after their humiliating display.

It also occurs to me that I saw him pocket a bottle of strawberry-flavoured lube and a pack of Durex ribbed.

And it occurs to me that I really no longer care.


End file.
